


Roach! And Other Indestructible Things

by Badtusk



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Start, American Sign Language, Deaf, Drug Use, Drugs, F/M, Fallout, Fallout 4 - Freeform, Fluff and Humor, Gore, Hearing Impaired, Humor, John Hancock / female sole survivor, John Hancock x female sole survivor, John Hancock/Sole Survivor - Freeform, John Hancock/female sole survivor - Freeform, John Hancock/oc - Freeform, No Sole Survivor, Sign Language, Slow Burn, Substance Abuse, Violence, full and angst, john Hancock x female oc, john hancock - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-05-16 23:01:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19327885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Badtusk/pseuds/Badtusk
Summary: She crawled out of the wreckage of the Commonwealth like a Radroach; Indestructible. And that’s how it remembered her, a quiet force that moved upon the world, all bullets and bloodshed.::Alternate history /Alternate start Sole Survivor::A story of the sole survivor of Vault 131, who’s life takes a drastic turn as the people of the Commonwealth consistently mistake her for some kind of legendary raider.





	1. Chapter 1

Finn didn’t know her name, which wasn’t shocking, because Finn didn’t make it a point to know many people’s names. Had a mind for faces though, good at remembering them, especially the ones he hadn’t seen before. Hers was one of them, all sorts of soft beneath the dirt, dark eyes too, early stages of ghoulification maybe, he couldn’t be sure, but something about them had him all sorts of on edge. That didn’t stop him though, skull too thick for any sort of common sense, the kind of thick that required a sledgehammer lovingly addressed to him. Even then it was a maybe. Besides, the knife in his hand had him feeling big and he had no problem being unkind to pretty things. So he stopped her at the gate, business as usual, trying his best to look casual and keep his damn hands from shaking.

“Haven’t seen your face around,” He rasps, all cigarette butts and bad choices, “you new to Goodneighbor.” 

She doesn’t have to answer him, he knows she is.

“Can’t let you go walking around without insurance, you might get hurt,” he adds, “you hand over all the caps you got in your pockets and I’ll make sure nothing bad happens to you.”

She stares at him, longer than he would have liked. Quieter too. And not in a stupid way. 

“I’d hate to see a new scar on that pretty face of yours.”

She is all sorts of personal, doesn’t look away from him once. He hates it, makes him feel like she can read his mind. So he pushes a little more, figures it might distract her for a bit, or even just himself. 

“So let’s make this real easy, and you just hand them over.”

Sweat beads on his brow like he’s the one getting the third degree. His mouth’s dry and his hands are shaking now more than before. Can’t even blame the chems, hasn’t taken any in the past twenty minutes, so what the fuck has him so rattled? Some scarred up cockroach that crawled her way out from under the city’s filth? No fucking way. He’s dealt with rats bigger than her, guys with all sorts of fire power that’d make a building blush too, thirty different types of assholes with nothing to lose, but she - was something dangerous. The quiet type of dangerous too, the “we don’t talk about it” type of dangerous. Vigilante justice kind of shit, or just convenient murder, take your pick, her eyes said it all.

The woman reaches into her pocket, real slow like. Something’s nagging Finn in the back of his head, telling him to walk away, but the prospect of easy money has got him deaf. She doesn’t look strapped, and with that vault suit he figures he would know. He watches her pull out a handful of caps, looks like a decent amount too, about 50, maybe more, but she can’t hold onto them all too easy. She shoves them into his hand with meaning, he feels like he fucked up big time even as he’s pocketing them. Like he just got a pass from the Devil herself.

He clears his throat, tries to settle his voice into something that won’t crack like old asphalt, “You got my word, sweetheart. Nobody‘ll be hurting you in Goodneighbor.” He feels real stupid saying it, that he gets lucky for even trying. So he backs up real quick, maybe just a little too quickly because he doesn’t trust turning his back on her. 

She’s still staring like a porcelain doll, except she’s dark like coffee, no cream, no sugar. Bitter on every rugged touch the end of the world has left on her. He’s starting to realize she’s not the only one staring, a few of the drifters have stopped to watch, whispering between one another and casting glances over to Finn like they should mean something to him.

He’s all too shit scared to look away, which is unfortunate, because the Mayor has been waiting for him, ten shades of pissed off behind a smile. 

And he’s got his own knife, tucked into his belt.

—-

“Come on now, Finn. That any way to treat a guest? I thought I told you to lay off that extortion crap.” He keeps his tone real calm even though he’s mad as shit. It still makes Finn jump. He spins about to face the Mayor, trying his best to look he hasn’t done anything wrong, but he knows he’s goosed. 

“What do you care?” He says, and then spits out a childlike protest “She ain’t one of us.” 

Hancock takes one look at her and knows Finn’s got a four leaf clover clenched between his ass cheeks, because that girl’s more trouble than Hell could fit in a handbasket. He smiles at her, all polite and says to Finn, “No, she ain’t, but this isn’t Diamond City. I said let it go.” It’s two pronged, he doesn’t need someone stepping on his toes and he definitely doesn’t need the Devil of the Wealth wreaking havoc on his little township all because Finn thinks he’s gone big time. 

Finn scowls and glances back at the woman. She’s not said a word this whole time. Hasn’t blinked either from what he can tell. 

“You’re soft Hancock,” he doesn’t care how bitter he sounds, he means it, “you keep letting outsiders walk all over us...one day there’ll be a new Mayor.”

It’s a threat, thinly veiled and Hancock doesn’t even seem to mind it. He’s used to it in a homicidal kind of way. He keeps his smile pleasant and clasps a hand on Finn’s shoulder, “You know,” he says, “I really wish you’d said something else.” He sounds almost disappointed the way he leans into Finn. It doesn’t change a thing, Finn’s already crossed that line and Hancock’s resigned to his ::Finn’s:: fate. 

He draws the blade from his belt under the cover of those Goodneighbor pleasantries. It’s quick, three jabs and no blood, not yet at least, no one’s seen it coming, no matter how much Hancock has projected that motive.

Finn can’t do much except be shocked. He lets out a grunt and gurgle while his blood’s spilling out of him, guts too. Hancock’s cut deep and he swears he feels his intestines. Worse yet, he can’t help but notice that chick’s still staring at him, nonplussed, just another day in the Commonwealth. Just another dead asshole. Fuck, he should have backed off when he had the chance, now he’s got nothing but cold earth waiting for him and those quiet black eyes.

He collapses, hands folded beneath him to try and keep in his guts even as he’s done living. His blood’s forming a small pool, nothing like the movies, something that’ll be washed away next rainfall and leave nothing behind. Not even a memory. Tragic.

Hancock wipes the blade on his thigh, he’s got no sympathy for the man, doesn’t feel an ounce of guilt for having to kill him either. “One of us” was just a word.

“You alright, sister?” He asks.

She nods only once, any more than that would be excessive, and Hancock accepts that. Doesn’t ask her why she hasn’t said a word either, doesn’t care. 

“Roach, right?” He recognized her from the get, most drifters with half a brain had too. She has a unique kind of pretty, the kind you’d find in a rad storm, all silver haired and glowing ::in a figurative way of course:: and tore up from the Hell she’s been bringing to the world. 

He likes that kind of a bad day on a girl. 

“I don’t think there’s many people in the Commonwealth that don’t know your name. You know, I remember hearing stories about you, years ago, I’m talking pre-Diamond City. Real wild shit too. Kind of hard to believe really, girl like you fighting off Deathclaws and super mutants. I would have liked to have seen that.“

She’s impassive, maybe a little annoyed, and the look sends a shiver down Hancock’s spine that he isn’t used to outside of a bedroom. 

“Gotta say, someone like you? In Goodneighbor? You’re either looking for trouble, or in trouble, so which is it?” He’s nice about it, hasn’t thought for a minute he might throw her out even if she is thirteen different types of bad news. It’s been awful comfortable here in Goodneighbor, Hancock knows that, feels himself getting softer by the day. Getting used to that ratty old couch he had up in his State House. The good old days have all but been bled out.

So, he figures he could use some bad news. 

Roach eyes him as if he’s projecting that thought right up there in that same Goodneighbor neon, because he hasn’t once given off the vibe that he might be any type of scared. She holds his gaze like that for just a moment longer, then softens. She holds up a finger, silently asking for a moment of time before she pulls out a yellowed sheet of paper. It’s folded neatly in all the same places, he can tell this isn’t the first time she’s shown it off by the fray in the fibers at its creases and the way it falls open in her hands. 

She holds it out to him.

He’s real careful when he grabs it, just a little too rough and he knows it’ll fall apart, which would be a shame because it’s all she’s got. He whistles, “This is good, real good,” he says. It’s a picture of an Eyebot, real professional too, he’s amazed it’s all done in ink, even the shadows. She’s got a real talent for art, which is a bit surprising compared to all the stories that paint her as some vicious thug. “You looking for this thing?”

Roach nods.

Neither of them seem to notice Finn anymore, even as he’s choking on his own blood, dying too slow for his own comfort.

“Can’t say I’ve seen one in these parts,” Hancock says, looking at the picture again if only just to admire it, “what’s so special bout this bot?” 

She’s quiet, but talks with her hands. It catches Hancock off guard, wasn’t even sure she was talking in the first place, but the gestures are slow and deliberate so he knows there’s more meaning to it. He frowns, watching carefully even though he knows it’s going to do him no good. He’s not familiar with the language and can’t even think of anyone he would know that might. Shit, if he had a couple Mentats he could probably fix all of that, but his hands are full and he’s two parts confused and fascinated. But when she points to the paper and then herself, it clicks. She’s looking for her companion, a translator probably, so he asks, just to be sure:

“This bot does all your talking, don’t it?”

Roach smiles, tilts her head just a little bit with a pointed arch of the brow. She gives him the good ol’ and trusted finger guns.

All the stories start making sense, the eye contact too, sure she’s got some bloodshed under the belt, but she’s not being quiet because she thinks it makes her look hard. She’s got no choice. And he’s not sure if it’s because she’s deaf or mute, but she responds well enough to his questions that he figures it might be the latter. Doesn’t matter either which way to him though. 

“You can try asking around, not sure how lucky you’ll get, but you’re welcome here in Goodneighbor for as long as you like.”

He hands back the drawing. Roach neatly folds it up one more time and slides it into her pocket. She thanks him, mouthing the word with the gesture so he gets it.

He nods, “Sorry I ain’t got more for you, sister.”

Roach shrugs, the kind of indifferent heard-that-before and don’t-worry-about-it kind of shrug. No hard feelings and all that kindness, she’s just grateful for the time. 

“If there’s anything else I can help you with though, come see me in the Old State House,” he points out a building with a single lit lamp and a beautifully blocked threshold. “And anyone else gives you trouble, you do what you gotta do.” 

He’s about to leave but she stops him before he can, does it with the lightest touch on his shoulder. She points down and spells out C-A-P-S real slow for him. The ‘C’ is a gimme and he figures the rest out easily enough. 

“Last I checked, they belonged to you,” Hancock gives her the go ahead, but he’s a bit thrown off by how polite she is. Strange, he thinks, how she asks, he’s not used to those kinds of manners in bandits and bastards. 

Maybe she wasn’t all that bad, or maybe she was just that clever. 


	2. Chapter 2

“I have stood by and watched you make some shit poor decisions, Hancock, but this - this has got to be top of the list. Are you fucking insane?”

“Finn had it coming,” Hancock waves off Fahrenheit’s concern with a roll of his wrist, “the world’s not gonna miss one more dead asshole.” 

“Not Finn, John,” hearing her spit his name makes him wince, “I’m talking about giving Roach the run of the city. Are you fucking insane?” She repeats. 

“Hey, what do you want me to do? I stand in her way, Goodneighbor ends up the next Crater City.”

Fahrenheit glares at him, cigarette burning between her lips, she doesn’t say anything else, instead waits for him to continue on with his shovel.

“I got people to look after here. Besides, she ain’t gonna be any trouble. Girl’s just looking for her Eyebot. She hangs around maybe a few days, asks her questions, then moves on.” 

“Until someone pisses her off,” Fahrenheit mutters loud enough for him to hear, and means that.

Hancock eyes her from the couch, fingering a jet canister he’s been thinking about hitting. “Okay, smart guy, what would you have done,” he picks it up and takes a long puff from it, not once breaking eye contact. 

Fahrenheit admits he has a point, she’s not sure what she would have done and he can see that truth in the way her shoulder sag, “I’d tell her to fuck off to Diamond City. Let her be their problem.” 

“She wouldn’t make it past the front door,” Hancock tosses the canister back down on the table. He leans back into the high letting the plush cushions of the couch form to his neck and back, cradling him there in his Old State House while his daughter leans into him with all kinds of fury. 

“How’s that our problem?”

“Because this is Goodneighbor,” he replies, “Of the people, for the people.”

“Fuck off with that,” Fahrenheit says, “We’re talking about Roach, not some drifter come in out of the Commonwealth.”

“I don’t think I see your point.” 

He can feel her eyes boring into him, white hot, he doesn’t let it ruin his high. She gets to the point, “Whatever she does,” she pauses with vicious intent, “that’s on you, John,” there she goes again with that first name crap, “you feel me?”

He smirks at that, “Yeah, I feel ya.” 

Fahrenheit glares at him just a little longer, digging her point in just that much more before she storms out. The door slams behind her, all the pictures on the wall rattling in their frames and not a single one of them isn’t crooked to begin with. 

“Now you’ve gone and done it,” Hancock chuckles to himself. Fahrenheit will be mad just about the rest of the night, if not into tomorrow morning. But what else was new, she always had something up her ass about one thing or another; Certainly didn’t get that kind of responsibility from dear old dad. 

A cool breeze rolled in through the open window. It smelled like rain, maybe a good ten minutes out, he could already see the rad-lightning in the sky, flashing a distant strobe. Beneath it, Fahrenheit was bringing her own storm, following up her grand exit with another slam of the Old State House door as she took her fury to the streets.

She’s bull headed like a Brahmin, but she’s not about to go get herself into any trouble. He feels sorry for anyone that crosses her path though, in that regard, her and Roach might get along. But he’s wary about that risk, two nukes butting heads wasn’t good for anyone. 

He’s dead tired on that couch, or just too comfortable to think about moving. He musters enough to pull a tin of Mentats from his pocket, pops a couple with a flick of his thumb, and goes back to staring out the window. 

The rad storm off in the distance is really doing it for him, this is a high he could ride all night. It reminds him of those old Pollock paintings, he’s surprised he even remembers the name, but there it is. Jackson Pollock. Amazing how someone can be famous for slapping color on canvas. He thinks he could do that, Hell, he’s sure anyone can do that. Maybe if this whole Mayor thing doesn’t work out he‘ll be a painter next.

—-

Finn is pretty much dead.  
Pretty much meaning physically and finally. It took a hell of a long time too and was probably just about as painful as anyone might expect.

Roach crouches down beside him and signs an apology he can’t see, not that he deserves it. Not that he deserves being dead either. But she’s not too happy about getting the shake down from him, so she’s ok with it. 

His pockets are wet from his blood and start sticking on the inside to his leg. It’s gross fishing about in there, but after a few moments of digging she’s able to pull out all her caps and then some. It’s obvious he’d had some luck before he became a knife block because he’s got a few extra caps in his pocket. Seventy five, not much, but still more than Roach had shelled out. She keeps her own due and shoves the extra back into Finn’s pocket. She’s no thief, especially of the dead. Bad manners.

She can feel the eyes of Goodneighbor on her, just like every other town, leery and for very real reasons. Assumed or not. She feels bad, because she’s really not all the stories say. For a minute she had considered chasing after Hancock. His charm seemed immune to her perceived foulness and she figures that kind of honey might help ease his Neighbors’ minds. But the woman at the door is giving her some serious stink eye and she’s not looking for trouble. So Roach resigns herself to the task alone. 

She sighs. 

Goodneighbor is a meandering dream town, something Lewis Carroll might really be proud of. Everyone’s got these looking-glass eyes, an inhaler to their lips blowing cotton candy rings in the fluorescent buzz of street signs. There’s something about this place that keeps the whole world at bay, where the filter grain of sand just stops at the door. Maybe it’s the drugs, Roach doesn’t know, but she’s enthralled by all the colors she’s forgotten existed. It almost makes the frustration of her current situation bearable - forgettable even. She thinks she might like to stay here, maybe when she finds B4M, things to be considered, it’s something to look forward to. At the very least, Mayor Hancock has been gracious enough to welcome her, that was something new. No one’s ever shared such honesty in greeting, but he seemed genuinely thrilled to have her.

She really does like Goodneighbor.

A wandering love song dances through the streets, it’s a shared harmony between a live singer and some pre-war recording. Roach can’t hear it, but she can feel it, drifting there in her company, pulling her along.

She can’t remember the last song she’s felt, which is a shame, because she likes music. But who doesn’t in this world? Everything that had torn it to pieces, music seems to fix. She figures it’s the closest thing to magic they’ve got.

The Third Rail sign rusts like old blood around the edges, tucked away in the heart of the city and just about the only place left open for the night. It’s got an inviting air about it, the way the doors have been propped open to let the music breath. There’s a stale breath of drink wafting out with it, the soft clink of glass and quiet rabble she can’t make out, but it’s there for everyone else.

Beyond those doors is a small foyer, nothing to write home about, but it’s got this formal looking presentation about it, a real red carpet type vibe that leads up to a stairwell where all that music is floating up from. Roach doesn’t feel nearly important enough to go down, but Hancock has given his word and she takes that quite seriously. 

Worst case scenario, she buys a drink and sees herself out.

Worser case scenario, someone dies in-between here and then.

She really was hoping for the former.

“Oh shit, it’s you - you’re her,” At the top of the stairs is a ghoul, tan suit and sleepy eyed, he’s only there to cover Ham’s break and hasn’t been expecting trouble in that five minute span. 

But Roach has gone and fucked that up.

“Shit,” he’s cursing more and more under his breath, which is annoying because Roach can’t read his lips so good when he does it. She squints at him and makes herself look mean, it’s not her intention, but it’s putting the fear of God into the poor bastard. He takes one too many steps backwards, getting all sorts of personal with the top of those stairs. 

She steps in to stop him, but he’s got no interest in letting her in that close. He moves back one more step. That’s when his ankle gives out over the edge and he topples backwards. He’s all limbs as he rolls down the stairwell, each step a sickening crunch until he hits the bottom, twisted and dead. 

The music stops.  
Someone screams.   
A drink drops.   
And Roach, Roach just signs quietly to herself:

‘God dammit.’


	3. Chapter 3

When people panic, they become less themselves and more an amalgamation of fear and imagination run wild. Which was exactly the curious phenomenon that surrounded the particularly violent history of Roach; Who was, in no way, a particularly, or historically, violent individual. Every danger she posed was absolutely and precisely a very individualistic and intimately experienced moment. Meaning, Roach was only as dangerous as they allowed their imagination to be. 

Which did not bode well for just about anyone nowadays. Violence was as commonplace in the Commonwealth as the word common was in this sentence. As such, the fear that drove those imaginings was particularly deadly, and the legends that followed Roach were testament to that account. 

One more body adds merit to those claims as the stand in bouncer fell head over heels, neck into step, arm into railing, and then altogether crumpled and malformed in ways a body shouldn’t at the bottom of the Third Rail steps. 

Two men swing around at the banister, ghouls by the scars on their faces and red in their eyes. They stop briefly to inspect the bouncer who’s made his fatally expeditious retreat down the stairs and out of life. It doesn’t take them long to determine he’s dead, he’s not breathing except for one prolonged groan that seems to be coming from deep inside his soul - and, more obviously, his neck looks a lot like an L. Which anyone with a neck can tell you is the incorrect shape for one unless you happen to be a flamingo, which, this particular bouncer was assuredly not. 

Roach still hasn’t moved a muscle since he went ass over teakettle. She feels bad about it too, but doesn’t know how to convey it. Her expression is a pained sympathy, but they can’t see it, because she’s got the fluorescents at her back casting all sorts of inky shadows over her face. 

“Ah shit,” says the first ghoul, his hand flying up to his hat as if the revelation might blow it away. “It’s Roach!”

The Third Rail boasts the finest entertainment in the Commonwealth, stocked two rows deep on liquors that could knock a Deathclaw on its ass and, if you asked the right questions, you could even snag a few different flavors of chems; but what it didn’t have, and this was key, was a back exit. So naturally this causes a panic. The one way out is blocked by Roach and that’s a whole other level of intimacy nobody’s willing to tempt. So they tip back their chairs and flip their tables into a makeshift barrier as if any of that had any chance of stopping a bullet. It’s all they’ve got and they’re hanging onto that with a few prayers to whatever irradiated God is looking over them.

And those two ghoulified idiots at the bottom of the stairs are still staring up at her, catching flies.

“Mitch,” murmurs the second, “what’re we doing?” He doesn’t have the balls to put his hand on his gun, and he’s sweating that he’s going to have to. But Mitch is in the same boat as him, cautiously puts his hand up and declares, “We don’t want any trouble,” and very quietly adds on the side, “Get Paulie out of here, Rich.” 

Rich exhales a sigh of relief and scrambles to pull Paulie off the stairs. Paulie’s body slumps and contorts into a worse shape and Rich can feel the bones of Paulie’s wrists crinkle in his grip. It weirds him out and he wears this pretty visibly on his face. 

Thunk. Thunk. Sliiiiiiiiiide.

He doesn’t know where to put him, so he kind of drops him in the corner and out of the way. It’s a weirdly acceptable move until they can properly pull him up and out of the Third Rail. 

The Mr. Handy behind the bar pipes up in his cockney drawl, “I hope you don’t plan on leaving him there.”

Rich shoots him a look, “Are you kidding me right now?”

“No, I don’t want my bar stinking like a dead corpse.”

Mitch steps back from the stairs, hands up still defensive while the Mr. Handy assures Rich there will be another body to clean up if Paulie isn’t gone by morning. 

“Will you two cut the shit,” Mitch hisses out of the corner of his mouth.

“He started it,” mumbles Rich. 

Roach makes sure she’s not too eager on her approach, she can’t hear Rich or the Mister Handy, which isn’t to say she can hear Mitch either, because she can’t, but his lips are easy to read from this distance. It’s an art, not a science, she figures she’s got a pretty good handle of what’s going on down there though and doesn’t want to incite anymore accidental injury or death, so she takes it real slow going down all those stairs.

Mitch feels her presence like the grave. She hasn’t said a word and she hasn’t raised a hand of her own. He settles on the idea that maybe she isn’t there for trouble either, but keeps his wits about him like that would do him any good. “What can we do for ya, doll?”

This is the tricky part, Roach raises her hand real slow so Mitch knows she’s not going for a gun, then dips it into her vault suit pocket and pulls out the drawing. A few patrons are holding their breath watching.

“Have you seen an Eyebot like this,” she signs to Mitch, who doesn’t understand sign language at all. 

He doesn’t ask either, figures she’s threatening him with some kind of raider lingo and half expects the paper she’s holding out to be some kind of ransom note. He stretches awkwardly to take it from her, fearful of closing that gap between them like he’s going to be next on the stair count. 

He unfolds it and frowns, confusion knit upon his brow as he looks over the picture, “An Eyebot?” He looks up to Roach for verification. 

She nods.

“You looking for it?” 

She nods again and replies with her hands, “Yes.”

Mitch turns the paper and inspects the drawing for a few more moments, the stickers she’s got drawn on the thing really sets it apart from any other Eyebot and he’s pretty sure he’s seen one like. Even if he hasn’t, he’s keen on getting Roach out of the Third Rail before they all ended up dead. “Hey Rich, didn’t those Gunner assholes have one of these things with them?”

Rich squints from across the way like he’s got binocular vision, “Yeah, think so. Had a bunch of stickers on it?”

“Looks like it,” Mitch says. 

Roach’s eyes light up and she signs an excited, “Where?”

“They’ve got a hideout a few blocks down,” he hands the paper back, answering her question based on assumption, “can’t miss it, big ass wall,” he holds his hands up in a pantomime of their height, “right next to the comic shop, you know where that is?” 

Roach nods, “Yes.” 

“The leader of that district’s got a thing for machines, good bet he’s still got it. That being said, you’re going to want to look out for turrets and other automatic defenses.”

Roach grins sheepishly. It’s a lot of big words that she’s not used to seeing, she asks him to slow down and say it again, pointing to her ear so he understands.

“Oh,” Mitch says, “I didn’t realize.” Then asks, “You’re deaf?”

Roach maintains that grin and apologetically nods.

“Oh,” the inflections different this time, he’s figuring it out a little bit at a time. He repeats his breakdown and warning of the Gunner camp, pantomiming while he goes. He feels silly for doing it, but Roach looks like she’s glad he’s trying and seems to get what he’s saying much better this time. 

“Good to know,” signs Roach, “Thank you.” 

“Fuck this,” there’s a stir from behind one of those tables where a man bravely stands, “You two are going to get us all killed. I’m getting the fuck out of here.” He takes a few steps forward, then breaks out into a weak jog. He shoves Mitch aside, skirts around Roach, and slips right at the bottom of the stairs, in a just wet enough patch of Paulie’s blood. His face collides with the bottom step and knocks him out dead. 

“Christ!” Mitch yells.

Roach slaps her free hand to her face, sliding it down in one drawn out gesture which can only be translated as one severely distraught, “ugh.” 

“I’d appreciate it if you’d stop killing my patrons,” the Mr. Handy says from the bar. 

Roach was never good with robots, her Eyebot being the one exception. It was hard to understand a piece of equipment when it had no visible manner of speech, so when the Mr. Handy chastised her actions, which were not even really her own, she didn’t respond. 

“I’m so sorry,” Roach signs fervently to Mitch instead.

Mitch understands by the expression on her face, “Can’t really blame you for that one,” he says, “asshole did it to himself.” 

Roach doesn’t feel like that makes it anymore ok, but she accepts it, albeit guiltily enough. 

Mitch puffs a sigh and presses his lips to a firm line and thinks to himself with a shake of the head, ‘Shit.’ Like he’s gone and spilled a beer all down his pants. 

“You want me to put him with Paulie?” Rich asks.

“Yeah, guess so.”


End file.
